


a heart that is broken

by bireaucracy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, M/M, Mind Games, Other, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-29 01:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bireaucracy/pseuds/bireaucracy
Summary: “Quite.” Elias’ grin is sharp and full of teeth. Martin imagines what it would be like to pull them out, one by one. He thinks of Sasha-- he thinks of how Elias Bouchard knew exactly what kind of monster was parading around in her skin, and how he’d done nothing but watch with mild curiosity. He thinks of Tim’s last days, how the spark in his colleague’s eye had died and there had been nothing but empty bitterness there. He thinks of Daisy’s hollow frame, of Melanie’s eyes. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of Jon.-Post MAG 158.Jon rescued Martin from the Lonely, at a price. Martin does not cope well. Elias is not helpful.





	a heart that is broken

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Milo and Aysha for encouraging and inspiring me, and to Saika for editing.
> 
> Tw for body horror, very rough sex (with full consent), manipulation and mind reading, and unreality as well as depictions of a very unhappy grieving Martin.

The tunnels look dangerously narrow to Martin.

Maybe the Buried is acting up, keeping tabs on the situation. Maybe it’s because the Lonely’s endless misty world had felt so much-- bigger and emptier, yet somewhat peaceful, whereas this place holds nothing but lurking monsters and taunting secrets. For a while it might have been a reprieve of sorts, away from the Beholding’s gaze and manipulations. But the fact that Elias Bouchard is half carrying him takes away whatever comfort he might have felt in this place.

“Almost there,” Elias assures. He cocks his head to the side, as though he were checking on something in the distance. “The Hunters are gone. So is the other creature, and-- Ms. Tonner? Detective Hussain seems to remain upstairs, assisting her former colleagues. I called the police in order to help evacuate the facilities earlier. There are a couple of casualties, but the wounded are being treated right now and now that the Institute seems clean, they are waiting for my call to be allowed to enter.”

“I thought you were a wanted man,” Martin says in a tight voice. Quite frankly, he does not care about what is happening at the surface, not after everything that happened tonight. He counts his breaths-- twenty-five, twenty-six-- knowing when he gets to a hundred he will count downwards. It’s a trick his old therapist taught him, in order to keep his mind off things until he felt ready to confront them head on.

He is unwilling to confront anything right now. He is too busy trying to etch Jon’s face into his mind-- the messy hair, streaked with premature grey; the lines etched into his forehead, the sunken yet feverish brown eyes-- and how he had to look up at Martin to talk to him, twenty-five centimeters shorter. In the mist he had felt bigger-- enveloping and warm and protective. When they came out, Martin was barely half a head taller than he was, and that should have been the first sign of--

Think of the shape of his jaw. Think of eyes-- two of them, sunken and brown and how soft his voice had been when he’d taken Martin’s hand.

He should have taken up drawing.

Elias bears Martin’s weight with little effort, despite his stature. The man always looked heavier than he actually was; tall and svelte, he can't weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds, and yet he makes everyone feels smaller no matter how they try to reach and bring him down. Martin had succeeded, for a while. He’d succeeded with Lukas too (was Peter back on his boat, sulking and ranting and planning revenge? He’d only caught a glimpse of the man’s petulant fury when Jon guided him out the mist, the lighter showing the way). These moments of triumph now feel hollow--He wasn't able to truly do anything.

Something echoes down the tunnel-- it sounds like a recorder clicking. Perhaps the Archivist is already getting to work, making up for lost time. Elias will probably go check on it tomorrow, bringing statements to feed it until it is safe enough to bring down people the Archivist can feast upon.

Elias seems confident Martin _will_ be there tomorrow. “I made it clear to the PM that if somebody attempts to enter, they will die. That, and some well placed blackmail. A few sectioned officers are already planning on disobeying that order, but they will find a few letters at the entrance that hold… sensitive information. I think most will choose to go back, seeing as I expressly noted that if I were to be captured or killed, these will be sent to the press and released online. Incredible, how often humans will choose their reputation over good deeds. The idea of exposed secrets has always been one of Mankind’s worst fears-- some things are too private even for our own mind.”

“Even after all this, you still can‘t stop gloating,” Martin’s voice is tight with anger, and he suddenly pushes away from Elias to walk on his own. Anger is good. It gives him the energy he needs to go on. Elias’s laugh is infuriating, and Martin chooses to ignore it. “So was this all just to get back at Peter? All this loss, all this pain?”

“Hardly,” Elias snorts. “Oh, tricking Peter certainly was satisfying-- but mostly I wanted to see the Archivist grow, to see _ you _grow. Jon is finally in the last stages of what he needs to be-- isn’t he something? I can see why you grew so fond of him. Did you always sense it, that hunger, like a black hole? Is that why you were drawn in--”

Martin attempts to punch him, and Elias sidesteps neatly. “Come now, Martin,” he tuts. “I promise it‘s fine. The Archivist was always going to go down this path, though he did better than I could ever have imagined. We are close to the endgame; he has come close to all the Entities, intimately. Nobody can get so close without dying-- or warping into something stronger.”

“Screw you,” Martin says hoarsely. “He never wanted this. He never wanted to be--” The thing that had been left behind in the tunnels. Martin wishes he could forget it all, forget how tender and regretful Jon’s eyes had been as he pressed a kiss to his forehead-- lips already shifting, the orbs sinking back behind the skin of his face even as more of them appeared over his shoulders, rolling and focusing on Martin until he was howling, begging for them to stop.

They hadn’t. The thing that was once Jon was still, as though taking in the world it had finally been born into. Elias had only needed to grasp Martin’s arm and take him gently out of the Panopticon, the eyes at the back of the Archivist’s neck following them even as its face turned towards the rest of the prison.

He hadn’t said anything during the first half of the trip. A part of Martin had hoped that this was all a hallucination from the Lonely, that he’d end up back in the mist any time now. Better that than Jon following him and destroying himself at the prospect.

They have reached the exit of the tunnel, and Martin still thinks he can hear-- noises. He wonders if the Archivist followed them, but most likely it is taking in its surroundings and getting used to its new body. He cannot help but be relieved as Elias shuts the door behind them and the noises cease.

The Institute is dead silent. Martin follows Elias to his office in a daze, barely registering the blood trails along the floor and walls. Was it the Not!Sasha? Daisy? Institute members caught into a hell not of their making?

Basira is waiting, leaning against the door-- her face is stony, despite the tear tracks that streak her grimy cheeks. In her limp hand is a gun. She does not lift it to greet them. She looks-- Martin wonders if their looks are matching in any way. He hasn’t seen Daisy. He doesn’t ask where she is.

“You’re back,” Basira says to Martin quietly, ignoring Elias.

“Yes,” Martin can barely reply. He takes in a deep, shaking breath. “Basira, it’s-- is Daisy?”

“I have something to do.” Basira isn’t looking at Elias, so perhaps this isn’t about killing him. “I’ll be back after it is done. It might take a couple of days. Martin, is Jon--” Martin says nothing, and Basira’s sigh is… defeated. “Of course,” she says in a hollow tone. “Of course. Dead or… gone?”

“Not gone,” Elias says. “Ascended. No need to worry about watching him, Detective Hussain. I will be taking care of him from now on. Now how about you keep your promise, and then take a few days off? There will be work soon.”

For a moment, Basira does look as though she is about to shoot Elias, and then perhaps Martin and herself. Martin would be grateful for it. But instead she just stares, and says quietly: “After all this is over, I will find a way to destroy you. I know you have plans in place, that if you do most of the people here will die and uninvolved bystanders will bear the price. But I am deciding whether or not it is worth it anyway.”

“Of course, Detective,” Elias says in what appears to be in a genuinely respectful tone. “Do what you have to do. I’ll see you soon.”

Basira does not move for a long moment, and then she is gone, walking briskly past them with a purpose more intense than Martin has ever seen. Martin thinks he knows what she is about to do-- and tries not to think about it, and what he should be doing as well.

Next thing he knows, he is sitting on Elias’s guest chair. There is a glass of water in his hands, complete with ice cubes. He sips a little of it, soothing his parched throat. Elias is talking, and Martin barely registers what he says. He thinks of Basira looking for Daisy for the last time, eyes hollow and devastated. She is braver than he is, always has been.

“--Crown is close. So far, Jon has faced nine of the Entities closely. Now that he is a full Archivist, he has little more to do. He will of course, need protection and feeding. I am not expecting you to do so, of course,” Elias says briskly. “I am not that cruel. We still required a researcher, however. Your time with the Lonely has honed your talents. You will get a raise, though I doubt it’s what you desire. Take it as a token rather than a bribe. You did well, Martin.”

Did well. After months of attempting to protect Jon from the shadows, and failing miserably. In the end, Jon was the one who had to find him and protect him and used his remaining strength to do so. Martin does not think he did well at all. “You expect me to work with-- with the Archivist. To assist it.”

“Quite.” Elias’ grin is sharp and full of teeth. Martin imagines what it would be like to pull them out, one by one. He’s never imagined himself to be a violent man--except in moments like these, face to face with a creature who is older than his own great great grandparents and who somehow thought that such an extended lifespan should be best put to use making petty bets with other avatars of cosmic beings and ripping the will to live out of any person unlucky enough to work under him. Martin thinks of Sasha-- he thinks of how Elias Bouchard knew _ exactly _ what kind of monster was parading around in her skin, and how he’d done nothing but watch with mild curiosity. He thinks of Tim’s last days, how the spark in his colleague’s eye had died and there had been nothing but empty bitterness there. He thinks of Daisy’s hollow frame, of Melanie’s eyes. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of Jon. _ Jon _.

Elias’s smirk widens just a bit, and Martin knows that he knows. So he loses it a bit.

Martin is not a small man, though he’s always felt clumsy in his own body, never quite knowing what to do with it or how to feel about it. He has never felt more satisfied of it until now, throwing his mass forward before the other man can even blink. It shouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as it is to slam Elias Bouchard--Jonah Magnus, whatever the hell he decides to call himself, who _ fucking _ cares--into the wall, but hearing the wheeze escape his lungs makes Martin’s gut uncoil just a tiny bit. His arm is across Elias’s throat, pressing painfully against his trachea. There’s a part of Martin that wails in horror at what he’s doing, that wants to argue about being Better Than That, but just for once Martin wants that part of his mind to _ shut up _ and let him kill Elias Bouchard.

Elias himself does not struggle. Even here, with his throat being slowly crushed by Martin’s weight and his feet half dangling off the floor, his gaze seems calculating and ever watchful. Martin wonders if he should press his thumbs into the bastard’s eyes--make him see how Melanie must have felt. But then something stops him.

Elias just made the tiniest noise. It isn’t a whimper, really, more of a slight grunt of what should be discomfort, but is instead--

Martin looks down between them, and promptly drops Elias in sheer shock.

This time the man does make a noise of discomfort, even though his breaths aren’t nearly as deep as they should be for somebody whose air supply was unexpectedly cut for a full minute. He even sighs, as though this had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience rather than a full on murder attempt. As though Martin hadn’t noticed the bulge in these too tight pants and proceeded to freak out.

Martin drops him, and Elias collapses against the wall. He does not take big gulps of air, rather rubbing (caressing) at his throat-- he’s putting on a show. This is sick, Martin thinks. This is so sick. Even after everything he’s done, the man cannot stop himself from sinking even lower.

“Nothing shameful about it,” Elias shrugs. “It has been a long time. A natural reaction--”

“You-- I--” Martin’s face burns. He tries to ignore how Elias’s adam‘s apple bobs, deliberate and tempting, and then he can feel himself grow half hard and the horror in his face is evident. _ No, no, not this not now no no no _ ** _stop_ ** **\--**

Elias’s stare is intent, and a hint of contempt that wasn’t there before creeps into his voice: “I have to say Martin, this is deeply sad. After everything you’ve accomplished and seen tonight, the fact that _ this _ is what shocks you is ridiculous, and quite frankly I did not take you for a coward in that regard. How _ disappointing _.”

_ Disappointing _. Now this is grade A bait, and there is no way Martin should be falling for it, especially since he is once again half panicking at having attempted to kill a person--and yet his vision goes white with rage and he has to stop himself from reaching over and grabbing that perfect hair and slamming that smug face into the desk--

“Kinky,” Elias comments sardonically.

“Stop it,” Martin blurts, not knowing which is making him more flushed, the anger or embarrassment, or the-- oh no, we are not going there. We are so not going there.

“You seem to have misunderstood the entire point, Martin. I cannot stop it, even if I wanted to. I have to say though, this is the first time I’ve truly seen this part of you. What a shame, maybe Jon would have liked it--”

This time there isn’t even a surge of anger or any memory of a body slam. Martin doesn’t quite remember what‘s happened, except now he’s on his stomach on the floor and Elias is twisting his arm back painfully and tutting at him. “Now, now,” he says, sounding like a disappointed teacher. “I won’t say you were being unfair, but we do have to sort out a working relationship of some sort.” Martin howls and his arm has nothing to do with it, screaming in grief and in bitterness and indignation.

Elias lets him. It feels almost indulgent, in an absurd way, like a parent letting their child work out a tantrum before pushing the veggies right back onto the plate. Martin focuses on that condescension, refuses to let the grief dominate the absolute fury-- he will not mourn now, not in front of that-- that-- he will not. Instead he snarls and pushes back hard enough to throw the head of the Institute off balance, and immediately rolls over on top of Elias. Elias does not go down easily either, but it still feels like some kind of indulgence towards a misbehaving child. He grabs Martin’s fists with a strength belying his frame even as Martin straddles him. It almost feels as though he’s waiting for something, whether it’s for Martin to stop trying to punch him or for--

And Martin knows. He stops, for a moment, stares directly at Elias in amazement. Elias stares back impassively, a hint of challenge at the corner of his mouth.

Martin has never wanted to take a bet any less than he has now. He snarls, and slams his mouth against Elias’s anyway.

Elias’s grip on Martin’s fists loosens a little, and Martin grabs both his wrists and slams them on either side of the other man’s head. When Elias laughs, Martin bites his lip so hard that the laugh turns into a growl. Elias tries to break free, but instead Martin’s nails bite into his skin-- a warning.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He is half mad with grief and hatred for this disgusting little man, he should be walking away and leaving the bastard to go fuck himself, quite literally so. He should not be giving in at all to this unnatural, despicable lust. But Martin also wants to hurt Elias Bouchard, and he does not want to think of the many eyed husk of the man he loved left behind in the mist, and he really, _ really _ wants to hurt Elias Bouchard.

Elias Bouchard wants to hurt him back, though Martin doubts it’s for anywhere near the same reasons. Teeth that are too sharp bite into his lip, to the point where Martin instinctively moves his head away-- so Elias snaps at his arm instead and it’s painful. Martin still doesn’t let go.

Elias’s tongue is lapping at the blood leaking from where his teeth are digging into Martin’s arm. The gall of it. Martin grabs at Elias’s jaw and wrenches it open, pulling his mangled arm away from Elias’s bloodied mouth. Elias licks his lips, his smile mocking, and Martin backhands him. It's a joy to see the smugness slide off that stolen face, eyes disoriented and clouded with… something Martin prefers only marginally over the smugness. The sick fuck is enjoying this. Martin tries to ignore the kind of person that makes _ him _, tries to ignore how much of that glassy eyed look Elias wears is a direct response to his own thoughts.

Even with Elias’s eyes going hazy with lust, Martin can feel the back of his neck prickling. He doesn't know from where the Eye is staring at him, taking in every detail of his frenzy to feed itself. Did Elias plan this beforehand? A nice little dessert for his Master after it had finished consuming Jon’s soul? Damn them. Damn them all.

He should get up and leave, refuse to give it any final morsel, and yet when Elias bucks his hips upwards the gesture feels like yet another challenge to see this through, and it is very hard for Martin to not grind back. Because if he does leave now, he will have the time and clarity of mind to think about the way the Archivist had stared at him curiously through Jon’s eyes. And he really does want to hurt Elias, badly. To take away the Beholding’s main set of eyes if only for a little while and by fucking its owner into oblivion.

Because he _ is _ going to fuck Elias, oh yes. Bastard will probably enjoy it, but if Martin can reclaim even one bit of control he will.

He starts by wrenching Elias’s shirt open, paying no attention to buttons or the smooth collar before tearing up the fabric. Elias’s grin is back, his hands gripping at Martin’s wrists even as Martin yanks at his tie pulling him closer so he can bite into his neck. This time Martin is the one who tastes Elias’s blood, and it occurs to him that the blood is truly _ Elias’s _, as in the poor bastard‘s whose eyes were neatly plucked out and replaced by Jonah Magnus’s. He is hurting a body that was stolen from a dumb kid whose sole mistake was working at this Institute. Martin should be feeling guilty. He just ends up biting higher and more savagely than he'd ever thought himself capable of. Let Jonah Magnus--Elias--feel this even through the walking corpse he now calls his body.

Elias doesn't make it easy, of course. He isn't fighting back, exactly--Martin wouldn't be able to cross that line no matter how much he wishes he could bash the man’s brains in--but Elias does make every step feel like a fight that Martin only barely wins. He makes it clear that Martin can only do this because he is putting up a token amount of resistance, and could easily do more. The hand that runs through Martin’s hair and pulls is proof enough of that. Still, he lets out a small hum when Martin leans back and his fingers wrap around Elias’s throat again, digging into the tendons. Martin is aware by now that cutting off the man’s air supply will not do much, but he can make it uncomfortable.

He grinds down, hard, putting his full weight into it. Martin is not a small man-- he’d always tried to be. Hunching and making himself smaller whenever his dad was around, and then when his mum scratched at his arms whenever he washed her (it wasn’t that she didn’t want to be washed, but rather that no matter how gently he traced the cloth down her shoulders she would screech at harsh he was being, how violent he was-- _ get out of my head you piece of shit _ ). He’d reached adulthood aware of how tall and large he was, how people might involuntarily step back when they fully took him in, how many men had urged him to be brutal in bed even when he had no desire to be so. In the archives, he’d tried to make himself circumspect, to hunch over and speak quietly in order to make others feel at ease. He’d always hated it, how big he was, how threatening he looked despite his desperate desire to be the opposite. All he wanted was to wrap himself around somebody else, somebody who would cup his face gently and comment fondly on how warm and enveloping and _ enough _he was. And yet now, he is grateful for his bulk-- glad that he is able to push down on Elias and feel bigger than him (slightly less small in the perception of the Elder God watching them both). He is glad his hands are big enough for one to nail Elias to the floor, for his pelvis roll to feel punishing. He is glad he has this one thing, even if he hates himself for the entire train of thought afterwards. There will be time for self loathing later.

Elias is pinned down, so he cannot grind back, but nevertheless his nails are digging into the flesh of Martin’s hips through his half torn shirt. Martin thinks briefly about taking it off, but he doesn’t want to show more skin than he needs to. Instead he presses down on Elias, his cock hard enough to strain through his pants. Elias makes another little noise, hands finding Martin's hips and trying to bring him closer somehow. They're at it for a few minutes, with Martin rocking forwards with all his weight and Elias unable to even buckle forward, instead clutching Martin’s hips while he lets out little pants until he snaps irritably: “Put your back into it, will you?”

Martin slows down out of spite. Elias actually scowls, and Martin takes way too much pleasure in it. But Elias’s frown smooths, and he eventually just sighs. “I really do have to do everything myself,” he says, and suddenly Martin is the one pinned on his back, ears ringing slightly, vision clouded at the edges until he spots Elias slowly, methodically removing his belt and the world shifts back into unnatural focus. He is suddenly aware of every detail of the scene-- the streaks of grime down his face and the mole at the base of Elias’s spine and the fine layer of dust on top of the clock and the mice watching from the hole behind the file cabinet, the lube in the second drawer to the left that sits next to a yellowed tibia. It is only a flash, and it is enough to make Martin choke on his own tongue. His brain takes a few moments to process how its consciousness had encompassed every atom in the room.

Elias pulls the belt off him and folds it before placing it neatly to the side. “As aware as I am of your desire to punish me, I am growing tired of this game, Martin,” he says, divesting himself from whatever is left of his shirt. “Either get serious or get out and work out your misery elsewhere.”

“How dare you--” Martin struggles to continue the sentence; his limbs are slowly regaining feeling but his mind is blurring with rage. “You think I haven't been serious from the start of this, you pompous prat? You, who took everything from me--”

“Even after tonight, still acting like a child.” Elias shakes his head slightly; the smirk is back on his face as he leans down to breathe against Martin’s ear. “You want to prove yourself, brat? To me, to Jon, to your poor mother, to the gods you've managed to evade tonight? then stop talking. Get _ serious _ .” Teeth that are longer, sharper than he's ever seen on his supervisor bite at his earlobe; Martin wonders if Elias will chew a piece off and display it next to the bones in his desk. “Enough half hearted shoving and insults. Stop holding back. _ Show me that rage, Blackwood _.”

He does.

He throws Elias off him and backhands him again, harder than the first time. Elias seems to savour it, how easy it had been for Martin to do so--no thinking or moral quandary, just settling into movements that feel right and natural in this moment. Martin pushes away all thoughts of Jon, of his poor mother, of the gods who have ruined his life, and proceeds to hurt Elias Bouchard like he'd always deserved.

Elias himself still puts up resistance but it isn't token this time; this time it feels like less of the way a parent would fake resistance to their child whacking them with a sword and more like a genuine deathmatch. He scratches, he punches back (more heavily than his weight should allow for), he bites--sometimes with teeth too sharp to belong to this body. Martin feels every little wound and bruise being catalogued by the Eye that sees All, a hagiography in the making. There is nothing he can do except bite harder.

But eventually he too reaches an impasse, tired of waiting and wanting more. He gets up from his position of straddling Elias and grabs the other man's hair to force him to stand as well. Elias’s usually pristine face is half swollen, blood trickling from his mouth; he licks it off his lips the moment Martin thinks of doing it himself, before beaming widely. He looks like a cat who just emptied a whole tub of cream.

He also knows exactly what they're both looking for, shows no surprise when Martin pulls the right drawer open and carefully fishes out the bottom of lube, avoiding to touch anything else in his desk.

“Hands on the desk, pants down,” Martin barks

Elias doesn't move, his face still split into a dangerous grin. “Why, Martin, one would almost think you _ cared _.”

Martin grabs his throat to pull him closer. “I do not,” he hisses. “However, despite your and Peter’s best efforts, I still happen to have some standards.”

Elias licks his lower lip again, the movement of his tongue slow and deliberate. “Please, Martin. After all this time, I hardly require much preparation at all. It's more… intense that way."

Martin does not know if the sudden image he has of Elias bouncing on Peter Lukas’s dick with no lube or oil involved is a projection from Elias or from his own imagination. His voice does not waver: “This is my game. I said, I have _ standards _.”

Elias does not roll his eyes this time but a hint of contemptuous pity returns to his stare, until Martin squeezes his throat harder. He still manages to pant out: “Well then, how about a compromise?”

Martin has had enough deals with the devil to last a lifetime. “No.”

“Even if I offer to suck your cock?” The way Elias articulates is carefully crafted to showcase just how fuckable these lips look. To his credit, Martin’s face does not burn.

“On my terms,” he finally says. He drops Elias, who immediately presses him against the desk and opens his fly, hand finally pressing against Martin’s underwear. Martin exhales and tries to repress a shudder as long fingers caress the fabric up and down. He catches the wandering hand and pulls it down. “Knees,” he orders.

“If you want me to do it, Martin, you'll have to make me,” Elias purrs, as though he hadn't been the one who’d offered. Too bad then. Martin grabs his hair again and drags him down, using his other hand to fumble at his pants and push them down to his ankles. There is a sudden, intense moment of self-consciousness as he feels the mood in the room shift, as though an entire audience were gawking at him and craning their necks to get a better look. Certainly Elias is getting an eyeful, but he looks… hungry. Which never bodes well for Martin.

So instead, Martin’s hand moves to the back of Elias's neck and shoves him forward. “Take it,” he snaps. “Or I'll really take my time.”

“A daunting threat,” mocks Elias, but there is no mistaking the low tone of his voice. So Martin grabs his cock (so very hard) and shoves it against Elias’s waiting lips.

Elias takes him halfway in at first, tongue already swirling around the head but Martin has little patience. He pushes harder against the back of Elias’s head until the man is obliged to swallow him to the root. He isn't surprised by the lack of a gag reflex, considering the amount of shit he spews on a regular basis, but he is surprised by how Elias’s eyes half close, face seemingly lost in a daze--is he peering into Martin’s mind? Is he appreciating the way his tongue is working against Martin by stealing his feelings? It would be appropriate, considering how little regard he's always showed for privacy as a general rule. And Martin wants to shut him out but _ Christ _, the little bobs of Elias’s head as he seemingly gulps him down, the way that hot, wet tongue swirls against his member, the slight scrape of (thankfully human) teeth--

It's so much, too much, and Martin exhales shakily before pulling Elias’s hair and tugging him back. Elias's already swollen lips look even better now, and Martin is absolutely coated in his saliva. It still doesn't feel like enough, it shouldn't be enough, but--

“Desk,” he breathes, before Elias can complain about how Martin is too considerate. “Now.”

Elias’s shirt is already gone, but he still has his pants and shiny shoes on, and as he bends down to remove the latter Martin grabs him again and pushes him down face first. He can already feel Elias’s spit drying on him, so he just pulls down the pants to Elias’s ankles. Awkward position but he doesn't _ care _ . Elias’s chest is pressed to his empty desk--Peter hadn't used it much, and before that it had been cleaned out by the Met when they'd arrested him (did they find the bone? had they left it there on purpose? was Elias _ expecting _ someone to bend him over this desk when he came back).

Martin follows Elias’s instructions. He does his best to spread Elias’s cheeks before grabbing his cock and pressing in.

He wants to be slow, at first, as much to annoy Elias as to be careful of how dry and tight his ass feels. The spit wasn't enough, and the lack of it bothers Martin but Elias still lets out a long hum, welcoming him as easily as if Martin had spent an hour prepping him. Eldritch powers, or two hundred years of experience? Either way, he keeps pressing until he is fully buried in that searing heat. One of his hands presses between Elias's shoulder blades, keeping the Institute‘s head pressed to the desk. His cheek seems to be resting against the wood as he glances back at Martin, and Martin can see something bigger lurking from behind his eyes.

The hand at Elias’s shoulders moves up to grab a handful of hair again. “Face against the desk, eyes closed,” he orders.

Elias laughs, and it feels cruel. “Oh Martin. You know I don‘t need my eyes open to see every goosebump along your spine--” Martin gives a sudden, punishing thrust that kills the words in Elias’s throat. Truth be told, it feels coarse and dry and not all that pleasant, but the little noise Elias makes leaves Martin wanting more.

Martin's fingers dig into Elias's hip punishingly, nails dragging red marks along the skin. “Maybe I'll just fuck the vision right out of you then,” he snarls, and then pulls back and thrusts again, hard. Elias does cry out this time, maybe on purpose or maybe not. It is all Martin needs.

He sets a fast, brutal pace that feels unpleasant due to the amount of friction and extremely pleasurable _ because _ of it. It feels like he is punishing himself as much as he is punishing Elias--Elias who is making little panting noises, his usually steady and careful hands clutching at the edge of the desk and his knuckles white with tension. Elias tries to spread himself a little more but Martin gives him no break, trying to lose himself to the pain-pleasure, concentrating as much on the discomfort as he does on the thrill of how tight Elias is around him--

“My,” Elias's usually smooth voice sounds strained, pretending he isn't fraying at the edges. “Better than I'd, ah, hoped. I thought you-- were too soft to be capable of this.”

_ I wish I could still be soft _ , he thinks despite himself, and grits his teeth at the sound of Elias’s low laugh. _ You and Peter took it all away-- _

“Oh, but, Martin,” Elias is still laughing breathily into the desk. “You tricked--both me and ah, dear Peter. You _ are _ more than… capable of making your own, hh, choices.” Martin’s hand presses down harder, his cock drags out slowly every time before thrusting in again with no regard for either of their comfort. “And most of all, you know-- who made his own choices?”

“Don't,” Martin snarls, half bent over the smaller man. It feels like the imaginary audience is leaning in further, utterly and oppressively silent even as they cling to every word. Elias enjoys putting on a show. Maybe they are feeding their gods right now, without Martin even realizing it--the Lonely savouring the way Martin’s heart hardens as he fucks the man responsible for the end of the love of his life, the Beholding devouring every synapse that fires in his brain, documenting the unusual human behavior of Its two saints.

And of course Elias sees his fear and decides to confirm it in the worst way possible. “Tell me Martin,” he groans delightedly. “Is this how you imagined taking Jon?”

Before Martin can snarl and bite his neck, the skin his lips are brushing changes--darker, with thin lines like a butcher’s (where Nicola almost took it off) following the arc of a spine bent by hours of obsessive research. Long greasy hair that feels unwashed and uncared for in a messy half bun, breaths like little sighs of contentment. “Martin,” Jon pleads as his lover slows down, as though the nail marks on his hips were something he desperately needed to add to his collection of scars. Martin still does slow down because--this isn't right, not like this, Jon deserves--

Suddenly he is on a bed, and Jon’s small, compact form is straddling him, arms around his shoulders and breaths mingling as his boss, his partner, his friend, the man he loved and loves and will never stop loving--rolls his hips down on him, and it's soft and warm and wet and the way Jon’s hands stroke at the nape of his neck makes his eyes blur with tears. He knows that it is a lie, because even if Jon were here--he wouldn't, he couldn't--not more than a kiss, he'd made his _ peace _ with that-- this is a lie and he hates himself for making this Jon do things he could never take--

“Wouldn't he, though?” The words are Jon’s (laced with love), and Elias's (laced with taunting) and Peter’s (laced with pity) and somebody else's that he cannot quite grasp. “You keep pushing yourself back, thinking you are not enough--” Peter says and then the other voice-- “But you have proven your mettle and loyalty. So why wouldn't he? ** _Do you not deserve loyalty?_ **” The fingers at the back of his neck are long, too long-- Martin finds himself staring at a bright yellow eye, sprouted out of the skin of Jon’s shoulder. “Is it not better to take your own fate in hand? Leave the Archivist to his, and find your own role among us.”

That last voice is Jon’s and it isn't Jon’s--as though through a tape recorder. The slow roll of hips is methodical rather than tender, as though testing the waters. The form in Martin’s arms is taller, its limbs twisted (suited for climbing tall library shelves and reaching for dusty corners), and Martin does not need to look at the face to know that all of it is gone save a large, needle toothed mouth and a single, gigantic eye taking over half of it. It does not need more in order to Know.

Martin moves forward and bites hard into flesh that is human and not human. Elias _ gasps _.

The vision is gone. The bite mark at the base of Elias's spine is raw and bloody, even with fragile human teeth. Elias's body shivers, and the silent audience does not need to raise its hands to applaud.

Martin thinks about leaving. He thinks about bashing that damned head in. Instead he just breathes into Elias's ear and says: “I am going to take your mind away for a little while now.”

He stays true to his word. He pulls Elias upright before throwing him to the floor, and before Elias can scramble Martin pushes him to his hands and knees, grabs his hips and proceeds to fuck his brains out.

It isn't about pleasure. It never was. Although the new pace, far harsher than the previous one (he does not know where this strength comes from--is the Lonely giving him a small token?) changes Elias's pants into cries, and then from cries into howls. Every time Martin feels something creep at the edge of his vision, he sinks his teeth into Elias's shoulder or he grabs the bastard’s throat and chokes him until even the god he serves locks his breath. The entire time Martin whispers: “Not yours. Never yours, never will be, you monstrous fuck--”

Eventually Elias stops trying; his howls taper off until he can do nothing but _ whimper _ as Martin fists his cock, stripping away two hundred years of overconfidence and tightly woven plans. He makes Jonah Magnus feel like an ordinary human who can do nothing but plead for release, who even lets out a _ fuck! _ when Martin tweaks his nipple cruelly. It takes time to undo him, takes time to turn the smirking monster into a vulnerable mess who cannot compile further words than _ Martin, Martin, I-- _

By the time Martin is done with Elias Bouchard, the man is no longer smiling. Nor is he doing anything, really--when Martin _ finally _ lets him come, he spasms a few times before collapsing, his stolen human brain incapable of functioning for a few precious minutes. The audience Martin felt the entire time disappears with Elias's broken cry of release.

He feels no pleasure, even when he slides out and fists his cock until he comes on Elias’s shivering back. It feels more like catharsis of some kind, a knowledge that he did this--pushed Elias out and made him a messy, dangerously vulnerable human for a little moment.

Nonetheless, he is shaking when he gets up, starts looking around for his clothes, idly wondering if he should use the moment to find the pipe that killed Leitner and give Elias a final surprise--he is gathering Elias's torn shirt to clean himself up when he hears an unmistakable hiss, one that has accompanied him for years now and had been a comfort of sorts in the past few months. This time, he freezes as he hears it, and turns to the corner of the room.

The tape player clicks and stops almost mockingly when Martin lays his eyes upon it.

Of course. Even if he'd managed to take Elias's eyes for a little while--it's here. It has always been here.

Martin wonders if the thing that looks like Jon will be fed this tape while it sleeps in the tunnels, and what it might think of all this. Jon had-- had proven he did listen, he did care, he wanted Martin to know it as he reached the edge of loneliness and took Martin's hand between his own, and kissed it with dry, broken lips.

The Archivist had looked at him in the same way it looks at an article in a museum, to be sorted out and broadcast to a bored audience for thousands of years.

Martin is so tired.

He wonders if Basira and Daisy are okay. If Melanie is. He wants to go check. He does not move from his spot, feeling weary to the bone. He wonders if this emptiness is the kind that Peter had planned for him, this utter lack of any kind of positive or negative emotion. If so, Elias has beaten him to the task once again-- the world around Martin feels fuzzy, like a TV screen with bad signal. Like-- a security camera, showing him all angles in a thousand different windows that Martin struggles to reconcile as a wider view.

Elias is no longer shaking. He is breathing deeply, eyes closed and body limp and vulnerable. Martin can see where his come is drying over Elias’s stomach--he wonders if Elias is feeling the same, empty and exhausted.

He does not care to find out. He does not care about anything.

Carefully, Martin goes to the corner of the room and picks up the tape recorder. He considers smashing it-- knows it will do no good. Instead he lays it gently on the desk on which he’d fucked Elias (fucked Jon) and finishes picking up his clothes, pulling them on with little regard for neatness or propriety or the blood on his collar. He might take a shower when he goes home, or he might just collapse in his bed to stare blankly at the ceiling. He absentmindedly combs his fingers through his hair and considers Elias on the floor-- Elias, who seems to be half asleep until he shifts and his eyes flutter open. Something twinges in Martin’s gut. “No aftercare, I see,” Elias croaks. He has never sounded so tired himself, though Martin knows that his reasons are purely physical.

“I don’t think either of us would appreciate it,” Martin says flatly. He is unable to put any real contempt in it.

Elias makes a little head motion as though he were attempting to shake his head. “No indeed. You are finally learning.”

Martin is tired of lessons. “Did the Lonely separate me from the Institute?” he asks.

“Almost, but not quite,” Elias attempts to sit up, pushing himself with shaking arms. He ends up shuffling towards the wall and leaning his head against it. “If you were to stay away now, you might come out of it with nothing but a bad flu for a couple of weeks.” Elias winces, and then gives a low little chuckle. “I will probably be spending that time trying to learn how to walk again.”

“Good,” Martin turns away and prepares to leave.

Elias calls out: “You won’t leave the Institute, though.” _ Watch me _, Martin thinks, and Elias seems to sigh in exasperation. “Oh, you wouldn’t stay for the girls, of course. Not even you are that selfless. As it is, I might need Detective Hussain soon-- Ms. King is welcome to walk away. But even if I were inclined to let you go, I know you will not.”

“You think I’ll stay for h-- for it.” Martin’s hand hovers over the door handle. He thinks of the long limbed creature that carries the ruin of Jon’s face-- thinks of having to see it every day, hearing its voice crackle, only expressing emotions when mimicking the agony of the people whose trauma it steals. He wonders which would be worse-- having to stare at that gigantic eye every day, or staying away until he ends up forgetting the shape of Jon’s jaw.

“Take a break, Martin,” Elias’s back is leaning against the wall. He is inspecting the bruises and bite marks along his throat and collarbone, wincing slightly at a tender spot on his waist. “Two weeks. More if you need it.”

“You assume I’m coming back at all.”

“I am not assuming. You are a man capable of a great many surprises, but I also know that even if the Lonely had gotten you completely you would be coming back, if only to kill me. I also know that you are very close to being prepared to kill every person in this institute if it means stopping me.” Elias hums. He is still bare and naked, and even without his immaculate suit and his body tense and splattered with the marks Martin left on him, his control is back. He looks dignified and magnificent. Martin knows all this without even turning around, and does not attempt to chase the Beholding out of his head.

“Why do you want me here, then.” Martin breathes in and presses his forehead to the door. “Keep your enemies close?”

“Something like that,” Elias says. “The Watcher’s Crown is coming, and it needs a willing audience. Even if you manage to stop it-- to stop _ Jon _, the Beholding wants you there. Maybe It wants a check in place-- a half completed Ritual can shift the world in a way that even the Entities are weary of.”

“All the Rituals were half completed and it ended up fine,” Martin snaps this time. He is tired of being taken for a fool.

“Hardly,” Elias snorts. “Even the Unknowing had barely begun when Tim blew it up. A Ritual takes far, far longer to succeed.”

Martin stares at the grainy wood. Was this door the same that Jonah Magnus installed when he had first created the Institute? How many times had he fucked, or been fucked in this place? He doesn’t want to care. He wants to lie down and shut his eyes and maybe let the mist take him again. He knows that the emptiness will not last, and he does not look forward to the rush of emotions that will take over instead.

He barely registers what Elias says next, the rants about plans and how Jon will be-- he doesn’t care. He might care when he comes back-- he will come back, he knows it now. But not because of what Elias said.

He is willing to gouge the girls’ eyes himself if it means they can escape before he burns the Institute to the ground, and himself and Jon along with it. Elias--Jonah, he tries to remember but he can only think of the noises _ Elias _made-- can hop into another body for all he cares. He can attempt another Ritual in five hundred years, if another Entity doesn’t complete its own first. He does not care.

He wants to free himself. Free Basira, free Daisy, free anyone still in this mess. And he wants to free Jon. He will not let the creature that holds his body mock and violate the last wishes of the love of his life.

“Be sure to disinfect the bites,” Martin says as though talking to a child. Elias scowls, about to say that Martin should stop with the fake concern, when Martin continues: “I do not care about your health. But I don’t-- it’s enough. The next time I hit you won’t be to release my frustration.”

“Find a moral justification for all you want,” Elias says. “We both know you’re beyond this.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

When Martin closes the door behind him, the silence that greets his footsteps feels like welcoming mist.

**Author's Note:**

> "the occasional occasion of being rendered to a simple gasping creature because of a traumatized archive worker bouncing you on his dick? it's a bit of a reality check" - milo


End file.
